


Earthly Sanctuary

by LauranicusPond



Series: Pretty, Petty Thieves [5]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Non-Sexual Intimacy (a bit I guess), Urban Magic Yogs, mention of OC death, umy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauranicusPond/pseuds/LauranicusPond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross loses one home, and gains another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earthly Sanctuary

Ross carefully pulls himself up and out of the broken window, landing heavily on the damp grass outside. It's early, the sky just starting to turn pink with the sunrise on the horizon, and Ross takes a second to stand in the cool autumn air. He's glad it's not raining, for once, the sky clear. Ross can see the moon.   
  
He makes his way through the churchyard, weaving between the stones that mark the graves. One of them has sunk a little, the hole beneath the headstone dark and unsettling. Ross chews his lip, wondering if he should fill it in somehow, before shaking his head and moving on. He's relatively sure there's no such thing as the undead. But then again, he's sure no one thinks there's such a thing as a living gargoyle either, and here he is.   
  
Ross reaches the grave in the far corner, and crouches down in front of it. Gently, he rubs away the moss from the lettering carved into the stone.   
  
_In memory of Elizabeth Mary Letts,_  
_Much loved sister, daughter, and friend._  
_She shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever._  
  
_June 2nd, 1953 - November 2nd, 1971_  
  
Ross trails his fingers over her name.   
  
"I'm sorry there are no flowers for you again..." He whispers. "I can't get them, no one leaves them in the church these days, no one comes anymore."  
  
Ross shifts back, carefully pulling up the weeds and long grass between the grave curbs, smoothing out what little gravel remains there. When it's as tidy as it can be, he shifts down and sits on the footstone of the grave, pulling his legs up and resting his chin on his knees.   
  
He's lost track of how long he's been coming to check on her, remembers watching her funeral from the church roof. She'd died in the church, alone aside from Ross. Ross digs his fingers into the gravel, and the soil beneath it. She was so pretty.   
  
Ross sits for an hour or so, remembering the congregations of the church he'd seen come and go. The christenings and the funerals. The weddings. Midnight mass at Christmas, and the model nativity that the women and children of the church had knitted. Ross closes his eyes, thinking of times long before those, when the sermons were in Latin, and the church looked different but felt the same.   
  
Eventually, Ross shifts back up to a crouch and moves forward, placing a gentle kiss to the top of the curved headstone. He gets to his feet and walks away back toward the church. He's about to pull himself back through the window when there's a noise from inside and he stops himself.  
  
There's a tall man in a dark jacket in the church. He's muttering to himself, throwing his arms up like he's having a conversation with someone. Ross can't really make out what he's saying, but he seems angry. As Ross watches, the man turns and kicks out at one of the pews, swearing loudly as his boot connects with the heavy wood. He flops down onto the pew with a sigh and puts his head in his hands.   
  
Ross gets through the window as quietly as he can.   
  
"What are you doing?" Ross calls out, taking a couple of steps forward.   
  
"Minding my own business is what -" The man sits up and turns, catching sight of Ross for the first time. "Oh..."   
  
He gets to his feet, openly staring at Ross. In the white, early morning light Ross’ skin looks almost luminescent, his horns backlit, casting blue onto the worn flagstones of the church floor.

 

The man moves forward, around the pew and toward Ross. Ross stays very still, only his tail flicking side to side behind him. 

 

“You are just... What are you?” He asks. Ross watches him carefully, not replying. 

 

After a moment, the man extends his hand.   
  
"Call me Smith."  
  
Ross looks down at his hand, then reaches out and takes it, mindful of his clawed fingers.   
  
"I'm Ross. This is my church. What are you doing here?"  
  
"This is your church?" Smith repeats, looking up and around him. Ross nods. "Trott told me this place was long abandoned... Little prick."  
  
"Trott?"  
  
Smith waves a hand dismissively, stepping away back over to the pew he'd been sitting in before. Ross watches him pick up a bag and sling it over his shoulder.   
  
"We need church stone. I was gonna take it from here because no one'd notice." Smith shrugs. They can do without certain people noticing them right now. They’ve one too many deaths on their hands and a few too many people just waiting for them to fuck up.   
  
"No one would. Just me." Ross says softly. "Take some."  
  
Smith stares at him. "You mean it's just you here? Rattling around by yourself?" Ross nods. "Why don't you leave?"  
  
"I'm... This is my home."  
  
Ross has had this argument in his head before. He doesn’t know where he’d go if he left. He doesn’t think other churches have gargoyles like him, and besides, he was put here to protect the church. While there’s a church to protect, Ross doesn’t think he could leave if he wanted to. Smith watches him. Smith wants him.    
  
"But... There's no one here." Smith moves closer, looks Ross in the eye. "They left you. Left you like they left the church."  
  
Ross shakes his head and looks down. He can feel charm magic curling faintly around him, and takes a step away from Smith.   
  
"Please don't use magic on me." He looks up at Smith. "There's enough magic holding me here, I don't need you using it to make me leave."  
  
Ross feels the charm fade away, and Smith has the grace to look a little embarrassed. 

"Sorry. I just think it's a shame that something as... Fucking beautiful as you is holed up in here like a... Pigeon in a cage."

 

"A pigeon?" Ross laughs, covering his mouth.   
  
"Alright, alright, it wasn't a fantastic metaphor but you see what I'm saying don't you?" Smith reaches for Ross's hand. "If you're bound here, I can get you out. You can come home with me.”

 

Smith makes eye contact with Ross and holds it. To tell the truth, Smith isn’t one hundred percent sure how to break a bond. But he has a fair idea, half-remembers lessons of old magic with his mum, and with her mum, when he was young. Destroy or supersede, or both.

 

Ross stares back at him, blue eyes brighter than the glass of his tail and his horns. There’s something about Smith. He’s wild and unlike any person Ross has ever seen before, his magic so different from Ross’ own. But there’s something Ross finds himself trusting. 

 

“What are you going to do?” 

 

Smith grins. 

 

* * *

 

 

Ross glances back at the church one last time while Smith fiddles with the radio of his latest stolen car. He can just see the smoke starting to curl into the sky, can still taste Smith’s blood like burnt sugar in his mouth. Ross cradles Smith’s bag in his lap, the heavy weight of church stone comforting as they pull away down the road. He leans his head gently against the window and lets his eyes close.

 

Smith looks over at Ross. He really is beautiful, Smith thinks, gaze moving over Ross’ body. The marble of his skin is pale and smooth if smudged with dirt and dust, the muscles in his arms defined even as he relaxes against the leather of the car seat. He looks almost angelic, except for the horns, and the glass tail currently curled around Smith’s bag. Smith reaches out to touch it, but then changes his mind and drags his eyes away, looking back out at the road. The cut in the crook of his arm tingles, and the bruises from Ross’ surprisingly sharp teeth ache slightly. Smith hopes he’d remembered the words for the binding spell correctly. 

 

It’s not long until Smith’s parking up, leading Ross inside the apartment building and up to their pokey flat. Ross looks around him, eyes wide, clutching Smith’s bag to his chest.

 

“C’mon, in...” Smith ushers him through the door and closes it firmly behind him, flicking the locks across. Trott isn’t home yet. Shit, Trott. What the hell is he going to say? Smith shakes his head. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

 

Ross wanders further into their living area, looking curiously around him. He puts the bag down carefully on the kitchen counter and picks up one of the mugs drying by the sink, turning it over in his hands. Smith watches him, amused. Ross turns slowly on the spot, taking in the small, tidy kitchen and lounge, a couple of sofas at right angles to each other, a few pairs of socks and boxers drying on the radiator.  

 

“This is your home?” Ross asks.

 

“Yeah, it’s not huge... but we’ve lived in worse places.” Smith shrugs, moves over to dig through his bag. He lays out a few chunks of stone for Trott on the breakfast bar, as well as the two pieces that Ross had brought with him. 

 

“It’s nice.” Ross trails his clawed fingers along the wooden counter top. “I like it.” He flashes a grin at Smith, teeth pointed and sharp. “It’s warmer than the church.”

 

Smith grins back. “I dunno, the church is probably pretty fucking toasty right about now.”

 

Ross laughs, ducking his head. He has a smudge of green moss on the back of his neck. 

 

“We should clean you up.” Smith reaches out his hand for Ross’.

 

Ross lets Smith tug him down the corridor to the bathroom, and waits while Smith gets the water running properly in the shower over the bath. The space around the edge of the sink is as messy as the shelves above it are neat. Ross picks up a little tin from beside and opens it, prodding curiously at the translucent wax inside. He rubs a little between his fingertips before putting it back down. The shelves are stacked neatly with non-descript black tubs, and Ross takes one down, opening it and peering in. It’s green, very green, and the minty smell tickles his nose. He scoops some out with his finger and is about to taste it when Smith grabs his wrist.

 

“Woah, woah, that is not for eating. Also it’s Trott’s. I tend to leave his glittery shit alone.” Smith smiles, taking the tub and putting it back on the shelf.

 

“It smells good, minty.” Ross says, holding his hand out for Smith to see. “What’s it for if it’s not food?”

 

“It goes on your face, gets your skin all smooth. Not that you’d need it.” Smith runs his thumb over Ross’ cheekbone and gazes at him for a moment. “The water’s finally hot.” Smith slides his arm around Ross’ waist and guides him toward the shower. “Hop in.”

 

Ross wipes his hand down his chest and clambers over the edge of the bathtub and under the running water. It drums down onto the crown of his head and over his shoulders. The water is just on the edge of being too hot, and Ross can feel the warmth seeping into every little bit of him. He lets his head hang forward, letting it stream down his back and over his tail.

 

“Oh...” He breathes. “That is really really good...”

 

Smith’s hand tracing down Ross’ spine makes him jump, but the pressure is firm and grounding, and Ross finds himself relaxing into it. Smith works a wash cloth over him in gentle circles, wiping away years of dirt and dust with sandalwood scented suds. Smith curls his hand and the washcloth around the base of Ross’ tail and slowly drags it along the glass. Ross hums softly. 

 

"S'nice."

Smith smiles and manoeuvres Ross to face him, starting to clean down Ross' front. Smith tries not to linger over the glass set into the lower half of Ross' stomach, or over his cock. Instead, he drops down to scrub away the mud from Ross' shins and his feet as best he can. He gets to his feet, dragging the washcloth up Ross' side before wringing it out. 

"I'm gonna... Your face." 

Ross tips his head up a little, closing his eyes.

 

Smith wipes the cloth gingerly over Ross' face, washing away the remaining streaks of city grime from his pale skin. Smith cups Ross' cheek, smiles as Ross opens his eyes and meets his gaze. 

 

"All clean."

Ross smiles languidly at him. 

"I've never had a shower before. Is it always this good?"

"Depends who you're with." Smith smirks. "Can you dry yourself?"

 

Ross nods, and then puts his arms around Smith's middle, hugging him gently. Smith blinks in surprise, and then hugs him back. They stand together under the running water, Ross's cheek resting on Smith's shoulder. The dull ache in Ross' chest subsides a little, Smith's hand moving up and down on his shoulder. 

 

Ross pulls away and steps past Smith and out of the tub. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> '"What are you going to do?"  
> Smith grins.  
> HARD CUT TO BURNING BUILDING'
> 
> I don't know, I like scary looking Ross. Gargoyles with pointed teeth and horns and tails that could cut you.
> 
> As always, let me know if I need to tag anything else and feel free to hit me up on tumblr over at LauranicusPond


End file.
